Summer Nights
by MartaL0712
Summary: The summer of 3000 is the hottest one Faramir can remember. When he finds himself lost in Dol Amroth he stumbles into a situation he would never have faced in Minas Tirith and is forced to confront inherited beliefs he has never had cause to question.
1. Default Chapter

Summer Nights - Part One

by Marta Layton

Last Edited: 09 June 2004

The summer of 3000 is the hottest one Faramir can remember. When he finds himself lost in Dol Amroth he stumbles into a situation he would never have faced in Minas Tirith and is forced to confront inherited beliefs he has never had cause to question.

Warning: This piece discusses mature themes. Read at your own discretion.

Faramir walked beneath the sweltering Dol Amroth sun, listening to the music of the gulls challenging the ocean's roar, a Sindarin grammar tucked under his arm. _Home sweet home_, he thought bitterly to himself. _Had I known it would be this hot, I would have stayed in Minas Tirith_. He kicked a seashell out into the surf and watched it sink. _Are you not supposed to keep this heat away?_ he chastised the sea. _You always have before_. Ever since he was old enough to remember, Faramir and his brother had come to Dol Amroth to escape the summer heat. Most summers it had worked. Why not this time?

Faramir held his book out at arm's length, clenched his hands around it, and thought about throwing it out to sea as well. _No, that would never do; the useless thing is too valuable_. He heaved an exasperated sigh. _What am I doing here?_ he asked himself, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. _It will be another week ere Boromir is released by his captain -- and Elphir is scarce old enough to make mischief._

Dol Amroth had seemed such a good idea back in Minas Tirith, but anywhere but Minas Tirith had seemed like a good idea. The white marble reflected the sun's harsh rays until the entire city baked and you could not find an inch of shade, be you beggar's son of steward's. Dol Amroth at least had other colours of stone -- red, grey, and, yes, some white -- so it did not reflect the heat quite so badly. _Small mercy_, Faramir thought.

Every morning, to gain some relief, Faramir had taken a book, a loaf of bread, and a flask of water and walked through the woods outside the city. There at least the branches blocked out the sun above, even if the air was unbearably muggy. It had served him well so far.

That afternoon, though, the mosquitoes had arrived.

Faramir lasted an hour, swatting away the pests and trying to concentrate on the verb conjugations he had set himself to review that afternoon. "_Linen, linnech, linnant, linnem..._" he recited to himself, shoving his fingers in his ears to block out the mocking sound of the crashing waves. _Oh domain of Ossë, you are supposed to bring cool breezes. So -- why -- don't -- you_? He looked down at the book, realising he had lost his place. "_Linen, linnech_...." He gave up. He slammed the book shut, flattened his long-empty water flask under his arm, and began the walk back to the city.

At last Faramir reached the city gates. The bugs had not followed him -- some small fortune at last -- but here the heat was worse than ever, impossible though that seemed. Faramir wandered for some time, searching for a spot of shade without success. The heat kept him from staying in one place overlong. He walked up one street and down another, idly letting his mind wander. _The green lawns are lovely_, he thought to himself. _Wouldn't they make Minas Tirith look fine_? He roamed through the seven circles in his mind, adding flower gardens and small lawns, shoving centuries-old buildings aside to make room. _There, that's better_, he thought with satisfaction, looking around to see where he was.

He realised he was lost.

_Curse it all_, he thought angrily, _you have been coming here nigh seventeen summers and can you still not find your way home_? He calmed down and took a good look around. The road was lined with bushes, and on either side stood a row of houses and inns made from the finest stone, each several stories tall. Faramir craned his neck, trying to find a familiar landmark, but with no success. _Well, there's nothing for it, _he chastised himself, _you'll just have to go back the way you came._

_And which way is that_? the other part of his brain answered. Faramir looked around and realised he had no idea how he had got here. He could easily get himself lost worse than he was, and that wouldn't do at all.

His eyes rested on the neatly carved ash sign hanging in front of the nearest grey stone building. _The Silver Fox_. Now, that looked promising. It was an inn, so he would not have to disturb some goodwife's dinner table, and what he could see of the inside through the small window -- some tables with proper settings and suitably fancy chairs -- seemed pleasant enough. _I'll just step inside, ask directions, and be on my way._

Faramir placed his hand against the door -- and then paused in surprise. _Berúthiel's cats, that's cold. If the door is that cold, that means... _He quickly pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"May I help you, my lord?" Faramir looked up and saw a middle-aged woman approaching. She wore a crimson, high-collared dress and had her hair in a tight bun. _A bit austere, but not unfriendly, _Faramir decided.

"Good afternoon," Faramir said, bowing slightly and looking around. "How is it so cool in here?"

"Elvish magic," the matron replied, a twinkle in her eyes. "What would you prefer?" She waited a second, looking at him expectantly, but when he did not answer she added, "A table perhaps?"

"Yes, that sounds nice," Faramir heard himself reply. _Now that I think about it, _he thought to himself, _I'm already here; I might as well eat dinner. It is, after all, my silver_. He knew his cousins would miss him when he did not join them for dinner, but managed to push the thought aside. _I am no child and no longer need to ask my uncle for permission for every little thing I do_. And he smiled to himself, trying not to think of the inconvenience he would be causing his uncle's chefs.

Faramir sat down at the table to which the matron led him. "It is always a pleasure," she said, "to welcome one of the Prince's men." Her eyes rested on his ring, a silver band with the design of a swan etched into it and a light blue gem where the swan's mouth would be, and Faramir smiled understandingly. The ring was the mark of his uncle's household, and all the merchants throughout town recognised it.

"I am the Prince's nephew," Faramir volunteered. "The ring was a gift from him."

"Ah, my lord Boromir!" the matron exclaimed, a look of recognition crossing her face. "I should have known, of course. But you have changed --"

Faramir held up his hand, silencing her. "Boromir is my brother. I am Faramir."

Her face paled noticeably, and she bowed her head. "My lord Faramir, pardon my --"

"Do not trouble yourself!" he laughed. "'Twas a simple mistake." Curious to learn more about an inn Boromir apparently frequented but had never seen fit to mention to his brother, Faramir motioned toward the chair across the table. "Please, sit, if you will," he said cordially. After the matron had settled herself into her chair Faramir said, "Did my brother come here often, then?"

"On occasion," she replied. "Yes, your brother came when he could, two or three times a month during his summer visits, since he was not much older than you. He loved the food and the wine -- and the pretty faces of our wenches, if I may say so. Where is he? I would have expected him to join you."

"He will arrive within the week," Faramir said. "He is a member of the guard now, you know..."

"Oh, yes," the matron replied cheerfully. "Of course. He is quite the man, your brother."

Faramir remembered how Boromir had often shown off in front of his friends by lifting the heavy rocks -- small boulders, really -- in the woods at the foot of Mindolluin. He also remembered how, on more than one occasion, he had supported Boromir along the wearisome road toward the Houses of Healing when his brother had overtaxed himself. "He thinks he is, at any rate," Faramir said, smiling at the memory.

That made her laugh, for some reason. "But here I am talking of Boromir," she said, "when it is you I should be seeing to. Will you be wanting something to eat?"

Faramir nodded, taking a final look around the quiet room and deciding it would do quite nicely as a setting his evening meal. "Nothing cooked, I think; it is far too hot for that. What do you have cold?"

She considered the question. "The crab is delicious. We could prepare a paste from it, if you like. Perhaps some white bread, nice cheese, a cold spread, and a glass of wine. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful," Faramir replied, giving her a tired but appreciative smile.

"My poor dear!" she exclaimed. "You look exhausted, and I should hardly wonder in this heat." She thought for a second, then nodded to herself, a playful grin spreading across her face. "I have an idea. Your dinner will take some time to prepare. While I must apologise for confusing you with your brother, my Lord Faramir, I am sure you will forgive me for suggesting that you follow his practice of taking a rest before your meal in one of the rooms upstairs. I can send for you when your food is ready."

His heart leapt at the thought of a cool, dark room in which to relax. "That would be wonderful. Are you sure it is all right?" In Minas Tirith he would not have been offered a room before dinner, but this was not Minas Tirith. For all he knew this was the custom in Dol Amroth if one was dining alone; before he had always had Boromir's company to sustain him while they waited for the meal to arrive. And he was not going to say no to a cool room on such a hot day.

"Of course. Just take those stairs," she said, motioning toward the back of the room. "Room Four should be free." Faramir thanked her and, leaving his book and water flask on the table, headed in the direction she had indicated."

Faramir stretched out on the luxurious bed, the silk sheets even cooler than the rest of the room. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the flowers on the bedside table. _Why Boromir had kept this place a secret for so long_... He would have to ask his brother, when he arrived, but that could wait.

The door opened, and Faramir looked over, surprised. In the dim light he saw a girl a few years older than him, her thick black hair in a loose braid down her back. "Is my dinner ready?" he asked softly.

"No," she replied. "We have some time yet. The matron said you would enjoy some company."

Faramir sat up. Was it the custom to provide a dinner companion if one dined alone? "We? I did not request company."

The girl suppressed a giggle. "As you insist, my lord," she said and sat next to him on the bed.

Faramir moved over a little to give her more room. "What is your name?" he asked, slightly confused as to why she giggled at such a straightforward statement.

"I have been called many things, my lord," she answered, "and you may name me as you wish. But if you desire it, my friends here call me Isilwen."

_That's an odd answer to a simple question_, Faramir thought. But she seemed pleasant enough, and he would not refuse company, especially from one so beautiful, if she wished to give it. "Isilwen," he said, smiling congenially. "That is a beautiful name."

Isilwen nodded. "So I have been told, by many." She leaned towards him and pushed a lock of his hair back off his face, leaving her hand resting on the nape of his neck.

Faramir leaned away and looked at her. _This is not right at all_, he thought. Seventeen summers he had come here, yet he knew that did not make him a native, and much about the fastness by the sea still seemed strange to him, yet was this normal behaviour anywhere?

"Your hair, it is -- it is wonderful," she said. "Do all the men of your city have such luxurious hair?"

"Not -- not all, but many." He calmed himself, trying to slow his racing blood, before reaching up to remove her hand from his neck and lay it on the bed. He was surprised at how stead his on hand proved.

"You are blessed," Isilwen continued. She eased toward him and traced down the curve of his face with one long finger until her hand came to rest just inside his tunic on his shoulder. Faramir sat still, tense as a cat readying itself for a pounce. She began to kiss his neck but he laid his palm on her shoulder and pushed her back.

"Tell me, Isilwen," he demanded, attempting to keep his voice steady, "why -- why are you here?"

"The matron said my services were needed," she replied. Her voice was calm, unflustered... Professional, even... The suspicion that had been growing in his mind crystallised as she asked, "Have you changed your mind, then?"

"I never made up my mind to begin with," he answered indignantly. _I can guess only too well what she is offering_, Faramir thought to himself, _but best to be sure_. He turned to face her, and her warm silken lips trailed his cheek. He gently increased the pressure of his hand on her shoulder, holding her slightly back. Then, deciding physical contact was not a good idea, he snatched his hand away and shuffled along the bed further away from her. "What services -- w-what, exactly, do you speak of?" he asked, irritated to hear his voice wobbling.

"The usual, of course," she said. "I am skilled in all the arts, and whatever you wish --"

Faramir's eyes narrowed. "All I _wished _was a cool room out of the sun and a good meal," he said, hearing a touch of anger in his voice.

"Did you not request the room?" Isilwen asked, a confused look on her face.

"Aye," Faramir said, staring at her in disbelief, "a cool place to rest until my meal was ready. Nothing more, I assure you!"

Isilwen looked at the ceiling and let out a slightly annoyed sigh. "You are new to the city, are you not?" She looked at him for confirmation and shook her head. "When you ask for a room in an inn such as this, my lord, you are asking for more than a bed. You are asking for a wench to share the bed." Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. "Shh," Isilwen said. "It is all right. A simple misunderstanding."

"I am so sorry --" Faramir managed to stammer.

"No harm," Isilwen said, chuckling to herself. "Our ways are strange to you."

"Are you mocking me?" Faramir asked her. His voice was cold; he was a little cross that she seemed to find his discomfort so amusing. "How dare you --"

"No, my lord, I assure you," she replied quickly. "I apologise. I was merely thinking of the matron, and the look on her face when she realises her mistake." Faramir nodded, accepting her apology. "I will go, if you wish." Isilwen looked at him expectantly. When he did not respond after some time she gazed at him seductively. "Or I could stay."

Faramir thought about that for a moment, looking at the bed and the girl. It would be nice, he thought to himself. _Boromir seems to enjoy doing this, and it is so cool_... He breathed in her aroma of lilies, rose petals, and vines. Reaching out, he allowed his hand to rest on her knee. He let it lie there for a moment and, when she did not move but simply continued to look at him with that beguiling gaze, he leaned over to kiss her. Yet before his lips touched hers he stopped himself. _With her? She has probably pleasured countless men! And a woman is not to be bought like a bolt of cloth in the marketplace. You do not do this, Faramir_. Slowly he shook his head and withdrew his hand. "I think you should go."

"As you wish," Isilwen said. Faramir noticed the regretful note in her voice. That surprised him: it was the first particular interest she had shown in him so far. She left quietly, pulling the door shut behind her, and he tried to relax again. The room was cool, true, but he could not stop thinking about all that must have occurred here, on the very bed he lay on. Before long, he got up and walked down the stairs to the common room below.

"My lord?" the matron asked when she saw him. "Is something the matter?"

"It is indeed," Faramir replied. He tried to make his tone as cool as the room he had just left. "I did not request... 'company'."

The matron blanched slightly. "I am sorry for the confusion, my lord. I only assumed as your brother --"

"My brother's actions are not my own," he interrupted. "Faramir of Gondor does not pay for women, whether his brother will or not. This was a mistake." He sighed, and his manner softened slightly. As angry as he was, he did not mean to frighten the woman. "In Minas Tirith, this would never have happened. I suggest that in the future you ask less coded questions and get more plain answers from visitors to your fair city." He reached into his moneybag and pulled out a few silver pieces, laying them on the table. "For your kitchen's trouble. I shall not be dining here after all."

Faramir turned his back and marched out of the door. He would find his own way home.


	2. Summer Nights Pt II

Summer Nights - Part Two

by Marta Layton

Last Edited: 09 June 2004

The summer of 3000 is the hottest one Faramir can remember. When he finds himself lost in Dol Amroth he stumbles into a situation he would never have faced in Minas Tirith and is forced to confront inherited beliefs he has never had cause to question.

Warning: This piece discusses mature themes. Read at your own discretion.

"Uncle?" Faramir asked, knocking on the door to his uncle's private chamber. "I am back."

He stepped inside, only to be enveloped in a crushing bear hug. He looked up at the strong shoulders and the dark locks not unlike his own. "Boromir!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were not coming until next week."

"Now, is that any way to greet your brother?" Boromir ruffled Faramir's hair before drawing them over to sit down on the couch opposite Imrahil's chair. Faramir turned first to Boromir, then to his uncle, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Father insisted," Boromir explained. "He ordered my captain to release me a few days early. 'I will not have Faramir running around Dol Amroth by himself!'" Faramir laughed at the imitation of Denethor's gruffness. "He did not trust you, little brother," Boromir continued, "and wanted me to come look after you. But it seems his fears were groundless. Uncle tells me you leave every morning for the woods to read a book and are home every night by dinner --"

"My book!" Faramir cried. His mind flew back to an image of his book lying on his table in the common room of _The Silver Fox_. "I left it --" He stopped short.

"Yes?" Imrahil asked. "What of it?"

Faramir blushed slightly. His thoughts winged back to the cool room and the nervous look on the madam's face. No, he could not tell his Uncle about what had transpired there. "Nowhere. It is not important."

Boromir raised an eyebrow at that. "O ho, maybe Father was not quite as wrong as I thought! I had hoped you were not really spending all day reviewing Elvish -- that the book was just your excuse. And I see I was correct. Come now, Faramir, what mischief have you done today?"

"Mischief?" Faramir asked, fixing his brother with a stare. "Why, I have done no such thing. No worse than you would, at any rate."

"That does not eliminate much."

"No, indeed!" Imrahil chuckled.

Boromir gave Faramir a conspiratorial smile, then looked at his uncle. "True. Perhaps I should set a better example, but then Faramir would have no excuse, and we cannot have that, can we?" Faramir tried to force a laugh, but it was not very convincing. He was grateful when his brother, perhaps noticing his uneasiness, appeared to have decided not to pursue the matter.

"We eat in an hour?" Boromir asked, and Imrahil nodded. "Then I must beg your leave. That is, unless you wish your sons to suffer the smells of the road all through dinner?"

"Of course not," Imrahil replied. "Out with you, then. You, too, Faramir." And the brothers left.

Once they were out in the hall, Boromir turned to Faramir. "Come now, what did you do? You can tell me."

"Nothing," Faramir replied. He felt the colour return to his face. "I was lost, and I --"

Faramir was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal coming down the hall. The brothers turned and saw a small girl toddling towards them with seemingly impossible speed. "Bo'mir!" she cried, and Boromir ran to her, catching her up in a hug.

"Hallo, Thíri," he said, setting her down on the floor and kneeling in front of her. "And how is the Lady of Dol Amroth?"

"Good," Lothíriel replied, curtseying awkwardly in front of her cousins and dropping what she had been holding.

"What do you have there?" Faramir asked, coming over.

Lothíriel bent over and picked up the bronze spoon she had dropped. "Pretty," she said, looking up at him nervously.

"Aye, it is," Boromir replied. "Where did you get it?"

Lothíriel thought about that, and then ran behind Faramir, peeking out around his legs.

"It is all right," Boromir replied. "It _is_ very pretty, but don't you think Cook will miss it?" Lothíriel nodded, and Boromir picked her up in his arms. "Well, let us give it back to her, shall we?" The three stopped at the kitchen and returned the spoon before Boromir and Faramir left Lothíriel in her nursery. "Do they always let her run loose like that?" Boromir asked as they headed on to their quarters.

"No, but she is small and her legs are quick," Faramir replied. He was silent for a second. _You can tell him, Faramir; he is your brother_. At last he said nervously, "Boromir, we must talk."

He suffered his brother's scrutiny until Boromir nodded gravely and said, "But not here. This should be a talk between brothers."

Five minutes later Boromir and Faramir reached the suite of rooms they shared. Faramir sat down on Boromir's bed and watched his brother remove his tunic and begin washing. "We need to talk," he repeated.

"We do," Boromir agreed. "Do you wish to tell me how you lost your book?"

Faramir tugged uncomfortably at his collar. "I left it at an inn," he said at last. "_The Silver Fox_. The matron said you came there often?"

Boromir smiled and nodded. "I go there on occasion. It is a nice inn, and it serves its purpose. How did you find it?"

Faramir turned his head away and mumbled, "I got lost."

Boromir left his cloth beside the washbasin, came over to the bed, and sat beside his brother. Faramir felt his brother's eyes boring into him. "So did you enjoy your dinner?" Boromir asked.

Faramir shook his head. "I left before my meal was ready."

"Oh?" Boromir asked. "Why? The wine there is said to be the best in the city."

Faramir turned to face him and saw Boromir's eyes flash with suspicion. He held himself still while Boromir ran a finger along Faramir's cheek and inspected it. Faramir sighed quietly, letting his head drop, his long hair falling into his face. He thought he had wiped away all traces of Isilwen's kiss, but obviously he should have been more thorough.

"Faramir, do you know what happens in that house?" Boromir asked.

"Not when I went in," Faramir replied flatly, averting his eyes.

"And now?"

Faramir lifted his head, brushing the hair away from his face, his eyes ablaze. How dare Boromir impugn his honour so! "I would never -- _never_ -- have entered such a house if I knew what went on in the upper rooms. You know that." He knew he was avoiding the question directly, and quite frankly he did not care: Boromir may have the gall to ask him that, but Faramir did not have to answer.

Faramir inhaled slowly, stalling for time to think, and saw his brother do likewise. This was a conversation they had had before, so often that Faramir could guess his brother's thoughts. Few men would admit to visiting a brothel, Boromir would say, but most had seen the inside of one, at least before they were married. Aye, but there was a good reason men would not confess to purchasing such a service. They were Númenóreans -- elf-friends -- not Easterlings, and for the Men of the West certain things required commitment: a shared bed was one of them. And if other men forgot that fact, how did that excuse Faramir from doing what he knew was right?

As Faramir drew in his breath he caught the scent of lilies, vines, and rose-petals; he knew that Boromir, sitting so close, must surely smell it also. Faramir's fear was confirmed when Boromir leaned towards him, pulled his younger brother's tunic to the side, and sniffed.

"You did not answer my question, Faramir," Boromir said, his voice terse. "Do you know what happens in that house?" He straightened Faramir's tunic, then returned to the washbasin. "Do not try to deny that you do; I smell her on you." He came back with a wet cloth and ruthlessly began to scrub away the remains of Isilwen's lip colouring.

"Nothing happened," Faramir said.

"Do not lie to me, Faramir," Boromir replied angrily. "I am no hypocrite. I will not think you less honourable if you have indulged in something I too have done. Why do you hold back so?"

"Nothing happened," Faramir repeated stubbornly. It was the truth, as much as he might wish otherwise. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then shut it, convinced that anything he could say would only lower him in his brother's opinion.

Faramir watched Boromir study his face for some time. "When you say that," Boromir said at last, "do you mean that nothing happened -- that you went in, decided you were not hungry, and left?" He paused, waiting for Faramir to reply, but when his brother offered no answer he continued, "Or perhaps that you did no more than I would have done?" Boromir placed his callused hands on Faramir's shoulders and turned him so that the brothers faced each other.

Faramir fidgeted under Boromir's rough touch. "Nothing happened," he said a third time. But he could not force himself to look his brother in the eyes, and he knew Boromir must guess something of the truth.

Boromir released Faramir's shoulders and leaned back against the headboard, his lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. "Something happened. Tell me, Faramir, or I will go to the matron herself."

_Not that!_ Faramir thought, trying to keep his panic from showing.

Boromir smiled encouragingly. "Do not worry, I will not laugh at you."

Faramir knew that Boromir had never given him cause to distrust his promises before, and he would rather his brother hear the truth from him than some stranger. "I was lost," he admitted, "as I said, and so I went in to ask directions. The matron offered me a room; I accepted." The smile Boromir had been fighting broke out, followed quickly by a soft chuckle. "Boromir, you promised!" Faramir cried indignantly. "And what of it? In Minas Tirith I could accept a room without fear of such unwanted company."

"You are not in Minas Tirith," Boromir answered; "this is Dol Amroth. Uncle would say that men are not so forward here as they are in Minas Tirith, and that they would not use courtesans if everyone who saw them enter such a house knew exactly what they were doing. And he has a point." He laughed.

"But men in the White City," he went on, "do not fear that tattling goodwives will spy on their visits: there are none to be found on the north side of the Fourth Circle! And there is no doubt as to what they will encounter when they go to an inn in that quarter. They do not face unwanted advances because they strayed into the wrong house."

Faramir reddened. "Nothing happened," he insisted. Boromir raised a sceptical eyebrow and Faramir found he could not meet his brother's amused gaze. He looked up at the ceiling, out towards the balcony, at the painting of Mithrellas on the wall -- everywhere but at Boromir. At last he sighed and met his brother's eyes. "But I wished it had." Then he shook his head. A man of Gondor should hardly think such thoughts, let alone share them. "I did not ask for her company. Or at least I did not mean to. But she said I did…" His voice trailed off.

Boromir gave him a kindly smile and said, "A little wisdom from the guards, brother:

_'Ask for a ground room if sleep you desire; so says the fisherman's lore._

_But seek for the stairs and the rooms above, if you wish for something more.'"_

A moment passed, then Boromir continued. "Did she have a name?"

Faramir sighed contentedly. "Isilwen."

"You have good taste," Boromir said, smiling at his brother. "Aye, I can see why you would wish to bed her."

"I never said --" Faramir began to protest.

"Yes, you did," Boromir reminded him. "And why not? She is beautiful."

"Because," Faramir replied in his superior tone, "I do not do that. I would sooner find release in myself than in another man's toy."

"Toy?" Faramir flinched under the scorn and incredulity of his brother's tone. "I hope you find release, then, for there are worse 'toys,' as you put it, than tavern wenches." He paused. "Do you remember Eseleth?"

Faramir thought for a moment. "She was your chamber maid, was she not?" he said at last.

"Yes," Boromir replied, nodding his head seriously. "Yes. And do you know what became of her?"

Faramir considered that, trying to recall what _had_ become of her. "I have not seen her in years," he said. "I think someone told me she went to live with her aunt in Anórien…"

"And do you know why she left?" Boromir asked. When Faramir could not answer he continued, "Eseleth left Minas Tirith because she was three months with child. With _my_ child." Boromir's eyes clouded, and he said, almost to himself, "My son."

Faramir sat in silence and tried to ease the knot growing in his chest. He was an uncle… he had a nephew… No, that was just not possible. And yet, why would his brother lie? It had to be the truth. And that meant -- that meant Boromir had known, and not told him. For years now!

He looked sharply at his brother. "Why did you never speak of this to me?" he demanded.

This was clearly not the reaction his brother had expected. "You were a boy --" Boromir began, sounding slightly aggrieved.

"I am not one now, nor have I been one for many years. I would have understood." _So you consider me man enough to bed a girl_, Faramir thought bitterly, _but not old enough to know the consequences of your doing so_?

"Would you have understood, Faramir?" Boromir asked, a note of scepticism in his voice. "Do you understand even now?"

_Oh, I understand perfectly well_, Faramir thought. _I have a brother who fathered a child when he was little more than a child himself. Any man with the brains of a mumâk knows how children are begotten! And more than that, he sent the child and mother away, without speaking so much as a word about the whole affair to me. And_ -- He looked over at Boromir and saw his brother's need for approval. _Would you really have done so much better, Faramir? You wished to do the same thing Boromir did, yet you were too afraid to do it. Boromir at least had the strength to match his actions to his desires. Which is worse?_

"I do not know," Faramir admitted. "I like to think I would have understood, but -- Boromir, you have just told me I have a nephew somewhere in the wilds of Anórien. News like that takes time to get used to." He sighed, and then repeated stubbornly, "I still think you should have told me."

"Now, that would have been an interesting conversation!" Boromir laughed. "Tell me, how should I have opened the subject? 'Faramir, when I was your age, I slept with a maid, and now she cares for my son…'"

_Come now, brother, I know you better than that. Do you really think I would have been so surprised? _"I already knew you bedded tavern girls, and you are not the only man to sleep with women besides his wife," Faramir replied coldly.

"Or perhaps: 'Somewhere in Anórien lives a girl who will never marry, not for any fault of her own but because I could not resist her charms--'"

"All right!" Faramir cried, clenching his hands around the edge of the bed. He was puzzled that those words had so ignited his temper, usually kept under such tight control. But this talk of passion, and not being able to resist it… Boromir's words contained too much truth for Faramir's comfort.

Boromir laid his hand on his brother's shoulder soothingly, and Faramir relaxed his grip and smoothed the quilt. "Where is the boy?" he asked. He stood up and marched over to the washbasin and splashed some cold water on his face to calm himself.

"I do not know," Boromir said.

"What do you mean you do not know?" Faramir demanded, spinning around and walking back to the bed. "How could you not know? We are talking about your son!"

"Father would not tell me." Boromir's voice was calm, but his hands were clenched and his shoulders more tense than Faramir had ever seen them.

"Did you not search for them?" he asked.

Boromir shook his head. "What would that have achieved? I will be steward one day, and a steward needs a wife, and a proper heir. Eseleth can provide me with neither. If I found the boy I would only bring them both pain; I have harmed them enough."

Faramir sat down and leaned back on the bed, sighing. Over the last two years, he had become used to being able to outpoint his older brother in matters of logic. Now he found himself rightly corrected. If Boromir _had_ sought the child out, what good would that have accomplished? Nothing at all, but to bring more trouble to those he would love. But Faramir and Boromir had shared so much: in all the joys and adversities of their lives, they had each been the strength the other drew on. Except for this. Surely Boromir should have known he could trust Faramir with this burden?

"All right," Faramir said at last. "I still say you should have told me."

"Perhaps," Boromir replied. "Yes. I should have told you. Do you hate me, brother?"

Faramir looked over at Boromir. "No. This is quite a shock, yes, but you are still my brother." He hesitated for a second. "Why are you telling me all of this now?"

"Because I will not have you repeating my mistakes," Boromir said, his patience wearing thin. "Faramir, there is a boy somewhere in Anórien who will _never_ see how much his father might love him. Why? Because Father did not have this conversation with me. He never told me that a lord of Gondor should not chase after innocent servants, and that he should work out his frustrations through more appropriate means. I will not have you ruining some maid's prospects or depriving another child of a father, like I did. Your pride is not worth their lives."

"I would not have let Father send her away," Faramir replied.

"No, you would not, would you?" Boromir mused. "You would marry her. And that is perhaps even worse. You would risk locking you both into a loveless marriage, throw away your lives, everything you have worked for, for one night of passion?"

Faramir sat up and looked over at Boromir, a wounded expression on his face. "Do you really think I have so little control, Boromir, that I would do that to some poor girl? To myself?"

"I do not know, Faramir," Boromir answered. "I thought that I had control. All I know is that you are seventeen, as was I." Faramir shot him a hurt look. "Oh, do not look at me that way, brother! We all are faced with situations we did not choose or did not foresee would be the consequences of our actions. Often we would prefer to avoid them, but life demands we deal with them. I made the best decision I could." He paused and brought the conversation back to its original point. "As did Isilwen. Do not condemn us when you do not know our full story."

_Isilwen?_ Faramir thought. _What evil drove her to such a life? Or did she make one poor choice that set her on this path? _He had never stopped to consider why any woman would agree to work in such a place. "Why?" he asked at last.

"Why what?" Boromir asked. "Why did I never seek out the child? I've explained --"

"No," Faramir replied, waving off the question. "That I understand -- your desire for Eseleth I understand all too well, and I can see why finding the boy would only make life more difficult for everyone." He laid his hand on Boromir's shoulder. "That was many years ago. The idea will take some getting used to, but I will accept it. No, I was wondering why any woman would choose to trade her favours for coin? Did Isilwen really have any other choice?"

Boromir nodded. "_The Silver Fox_ does not accept unwilling girls. If Isilwen had not chosen this life freely, they would have helped her find work elsewhere. But if you would hear her whole story, you should ask her yourself."

"You mean I should go back?" Faramir asked, blushing slightly. "I -- I couldn't. They would laugh at me."

"Nay," Boromir said, "'tis more than their lives are worth to ridicule the Prince's nephew." Faramir avoided Boromir's piercing gaze, and for a long time the two brothers sat in silence. At last Boromir stood up, walked to his saddlebags, and pulled out a fresh tunic. "This is something you must decide for yourself, Faramir," he said.

Somewhere in the castle a bell rang.

"We should get ready for dinner," Faramir said, and he went to his own room to change.


	3. Epilogue & Notes

Summer Nights - Epilogue

by Marta Layton

Last Edited: 09 June 2004

The summer of 3000 is the hottest one Faramir can remember. When he finds himself lost in Dol Amroth he stumbles into a situation he would never have faced in Minas Tirith and is forced to confront inherited beliefs he has never had cause to question.

Warning: This piece discusses mature themes. Read at your own discretion.

The next few days passed in relative peace. Boromir entertained Faramir with stories from the soldiers' barracks as they walked around town, harassing the shopkeepers and tradesmen. Neither of the brothers mentioned the _Silver Fox_ again. Faramir knew this was something he must decide on his own, and he was glad Boromir was allowing him the time to do so.

But what was there to decide? Until now, Faramir had believed he detested the thought of lying with any paid woman, no matter how beautiful. The very idea made him ill. And yet -- and yet, if he were honest with himself, the idea of lying with this particular woman, with Isilwen, he found tantalising. The more he tried not to think about her, the more his mind refused to focus on anything else.

And why should he not lie with a prostitute? Other men did it. Men he otherwise respected: his brother, for one. It seemed they all took pleasure from it, and were none the worse for it. And denying himself was keeping him from enjoying his holiday, or focusing on whatever he hoped to accomplish that day beyond thinking about her. Isilwen had chosen this life freely; Boromir had made that perfectly clear. No one had to know he went, if he decided to. Only himself.

Yet who mattered more than he? He did not live with other men's condemnation buried deep in his heart. It was not their consciences that would keep him awake at night or let him sleep soundly. For several nights he sat on a bench outside his uncle's castle, gazing up at the stars, convincing himself one way or the other, only to change his mind at the last moment.

_Boromir is right_, he thought miserably. _How much longer can I control myself? And 'tis best to accept my failings. Who am I, to do what other men cannot? But, aye, how can I do otherwise? How can I simply choose not to live as I believe?_ To which the other part of him replied: _Yet are you not more than merely your loins, Faramir? Whatever your choice, shall you not remain the man you always were: a son of Númenor of the highest quality?_

And so he wavered.

Several more days passed, and still Faramir did not broach the subject with his brother. Then at last one morning, as Boromir and Faramir were leaving to go swimming down near the bay they were hailed by Imrahil. "Boromir," Imrahil called, "and Faramir, may I speak with you?" The look on Imrahil's face showed this was less a request than a command.

"Yes, Uncle," Boromir answered. Faramir saw from his brother's expression that Boromir was just as confused as he was. The brothers followed their uncle down the corridor and into Imrahil's private study. Imrahil sat down and motioned to two chairs on the other side of the desk. Once they were settled Imrahil handed Boromir a folded piece of parchment.

"_The Silver Fox_," Boromir said, eyeing the insignia at the top as he unfolded the document.

Faramir's eyes scanned the sheet, stopping on the second entry. Boromir clearly did not guess the problem. Faramir, less accustomed to using Imrahil's accounts and enduring the oft-associated inquisition, was quicker to determine the cause of his uncle's displeasure. _But that charge is entirely too much for my visit alone…_

"But what of it?" Boromir was now saying. "You never questioned my using your account before."

Imrahil glanced at Faramir, clearly wishing to confirm his belief, before he accused his elder nephew, that the younger had no part in this. For many reasons, Faramir did not wish to disabuse his uncle of that notion. He made sure his eyes revealed neither guilt nor innocence.

"Boromir," Imrahil said, "I love you as a son, but even you must show some restraint."

"I am sorry, Uncle, but I do not understand --"

"Read," Imrahil ordered, so Boromir read. Still Faramir waited for the realisation to hit his brother. The bill reported one visit more than two weeks prior, but that was before either of the brothers had arrived and Boromir could not expect to be blamed for that. That only left the eleventh, three days ago.

"Really, lad," Imrahil said, "twice in the same night?"

Boromir opened his mouth -- Faramir guessed to object -- but then he apparently thought better of it. He looked back down at the bill, and his lips twitched in what Faramir knew to be the sign of a suppressed smile. _So he knows_, Faramir thought. Two visits in one night -- yet Boromir had only made one of them, and it was clear now that his uncle had not made the other.

"My apologies, Uncle," Boromir said, bowing his head slightly. "I will try to exercise more restraint in the future."

Imrahil nodded, apparently accepting the apology. As the brothers turned toward the door, Faramir felt Boromir's arm wrap around his shoulder. "Thank you," the younger brother whispered in the ear of the elder, and Boromir gave Faramir's shoulders a little squeeze. He knew, and he approved. That was enough.

Notes

Isilwen, Eseleth, and the matron are original characters; the rest belong to Tolkien. Isilwen's name comes from the Sindarin "moon""maiden," or -- with a bit of poetic licence -- "maiden of the night." Eseleth's name has no meaning, to my knowledge.

In chapter one Faramir is conjugating the Sindarin verb "lind-", "to sing." He is conjugating it in past tense: "I sang, you sang, he sang, we sang."

The deathdate of Imrahil's wife is not given, but she was alive at least in 2999, when Lothíriel was born. I theorise that, for the purposes of this story, she probably died in childbirth or soon after Lothíriel's birth. The visit to the Silver Fox a week before Boromir arrived was Imrahil's; his wife is of course dead at this point.


End file.
